All night I’ve been trying to remember the name of the love song that Julia and I used to sing in Scooby’s singing voice—or what we imagined was Scooby’s singing voice. I can’t remember—can’t even conjure the tune in my mind, or the words, because my memory has vanished. I used to be able to make Julia laugh, singing Scooby’s lonely song, in his sincere, out of tune croon, too loud and high—and Scooby would come into the living room from the bedroom where he’d have been sleeping under the bed, his glorious tail wagging, hearing the song and the laughter. He knew the singing was about him, how his earnest innocence made us happy.

I am stuck here, in this past happiness, so recent that I still can’t believe it wouldn’t come back to me, if I were just lucky enough to stand in that room once more time, and sing that silly song. How is that I’m suffering over the loss of what made me happy? This must be like the grief of death.

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